Becoming Edith
by MoreThingsInHeavenAndEarth
Summary: The story of Edith Crawley going to London, cutting off her hair, having fabulous love affairs and being the perfect 1920's woman. In short, how she became happy.  "I don't feel sad at all.  I'm more than ready to leave."
1. Chapter 1

**_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Downton Abbey._**

_**AUTHORS NOTE**: Basically, I love Edith. I think she's due some happiness, and I desperately want her to have some fun in the 1920's. To fulfil this wish, I wrote this story, so even if Julian Fellowes is a cruel mistress to poor Edith I've given her a good time. I hope you enjoy it, but it's the first time writing for these characters so PLEASE let me know about errors or being ooc._

**_OoOoO_**

Once Sybil had gone, Edith had known it wouldn't be long before she went too. It was as if by leaving like she had, Sybil had broken the hold that Downton had on her. It had started something whispering in Edith's mind; _see, you can leave. There is life beyond these grounds_. Sybil had written her a letter after she left for Dublin, and some of it had resonated uncomfortably with Edith.

_Edith, please do something for me? I want you to go and do wonderful things. You seem so unhappy now the war is over, and I want you to be happy. Perhaps you can only do that away from Downton. Live your own life, away from Mary._

That is exactly what she needed to do. Get away from Mary and from the whole lot of them who didn't expect anything from her. She was tired of her family. She was tired of Downton. There was very little keeping her here, but she had no idea how to escape. She didn't have a handsome radical in the wings with a plan to sweep her off to Dublin. She had to find her own way out.

**_OoOoO_**

"Edith, darling, I have the most _important_ question to ask you, and I want you to think about it very carefully."

"Go on…" Edith had been summoned to the telephone by Carson, who had told her Dorothy Madison had called to speak to her. This had been a great surprise. Edith and Dorothy had done the Season together, but that had been nearly seven years ago. They had kept in touch through occasional letters and their only real connection was that they had both remained unmarried – Edith through lack of offers and Dorothy by sheer bloody-mindedness. Dorothy had always had the idea that she would get a career for herself, which had horrified her mother and amused her fellow debutantes. She had been the girl you could rely on to spice up a dull tea party with a flask of gin, or Ascot by being caught flirting with the jockey's. In deb terms, she was a liability, but so astonishingly well-connected that she was never left out of a society event. Mary had always detested her for being 'showy', but Edith had rather liked her.

"Well, the thing is, I'm getting a little flat in Bloomsbury, but Papa's being terribly dull about it all and saying I need to find another girl to lodge with me." She sighed. "I imagine he thinks I'm less likely to get into scrapes if I have someone else around."

Edith laughed. "Either that or you'll drag somebody else into them."

"Exactly! Oh I knew you'd be game for it darling!"

"Pardon?"

"For rooming with me! Oh it's going to be such larks!"

Edith wasn't sure she'd actually been asked yet, let alone accepted. "Dorothy –"

"- I was thinking of moving down next month. I can get the train up to Downton at the weekend so we can arrange it all properly."

"Yes…"

"Will you send a car to pick me up from the station? Have you replaced the chauffeur who married your sister?" There was none of the condescending, gleeful pity in that comment that Edith had come to expect when people spoke of Sybil. "Gosh, I wasn't half jealous when I heard. If only we had a nice-looking driver – ours is about 80. Wasn't he Irish, too?"

"Yes." Edith said, feeling rather dazed by the speed of Dorothy's conversation.

"Oh how divine. Lucky old Sybil." She paused dreamily, as if to imagine just how lucky Sybil was. "Right, so I'll see you this weekend? I'll telegram you the train time."

"I'll meet you – I can drive a motor now." Edith found herself saying.

"Oh do you darling? That's marvellous! You'll have to teach me! Well, cheerio Edith! You have no idea how happy I am you've accepted me."

The telephone clicked and Edith blinked. She wasn't completely sure what had happened, but she suspected that she had found her escape route. It was a mad idea and Dorothy was the maddest girl she had ever met, but she was fun and exciting and Edith wanted to feel excited about something again.

"Are you quite all right, m'lady?" Carson was watching her curiously.

She nodded. "Yes. I'm going to be quite all right now."

_**OoOoO**_

_So that's part one! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I'd love you to let me know. If not, please let me know why. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**a/n: Thankyou for all the lovely responses. If you reviewed I'm very grateful, and it's nice to see some fellow Edith supporters!**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey.**_

_**OoOoO**_

"Carson told me that you had a telephone call today, Edith." They were sat around the dinner table – would they ever get used to Sybil's absence? – when Cora said this. It provided the opportunity for Edith to broach the subject that had been dancing around her head all day.

"Yes. It was Dorothy Madison."

Mary snorted in distaste. "Not that frightful girl. What did she want?"

"Actually, she's asked me to move to London with her. And I've said yes." Any qualms Edith had had about the prospect vanished as she looked at the expressions round the table. Mary looked utterly dumfounded. Her mother had a frozen half-smile on her face as if she didn't quite know if Edith was joking or not. Robert, however, looked angry.

"You've said what?" His voice was very cold.

"I told Dorothy I would move in with her. Her father has got her a flat in Bloomsbury, but she needs to have another girl with her. She asked me and I thought it sounded good fun."

"And what do you plan on doing 'in London'?" Now her mother had realised she was being serious she had a hostile look in her eyes.

"I'm not sure yet. Dorothy always wanted to write a gossip column for the papers, so I suppose she could do that. I might work in a shop or something – I miss practical work." Edith felt excitement flood through her as she thought that suddenly her life had endless possibilities.

"Work in a shop?" Her father bellowed.

"Edith you can't be serious?"

"Why not? Evelyn Napier's sister works in Harrods. I'm sure I could too."

"Elizabeth Napier has no prospects." Her mother dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

"Do I? What are my prospects?" Years of frustration and disappointments were boiling to the surface. "I am 25. I am unmarried. I have no real education. I know you all think that I'm destined to be the spinster Aunt of Downton forever, but perhaps I'm not ready to consign myself to that fate just yet. You've spent all your time securing Mary's future, but you've forgotten mine."

Her patents both felt a twist of guilt at this speech. Edith had been more perceptive than they had given her credit for. Maybe they could have spent more time on her.

"Why must you always act like a spoiled baby, Edith." Mary sighed. "Whenever someone isn't talking about you for five minutes you have to make some dramatic bid for attention. You're about as likely to go to live in London as I am to fly to the moon.

Edith bit her lip. "That isn't fair, Mary."

Their mother smiled placatingly. "She's right though, isn't she? You don't really want to go and live with this Dorothy girl, do you? Maybe we can send you to Aunt Rosamund's for a few weeks if you want to see London. Or perhaps your Father can let you do a bit more driving, can't you Robert?"

"No, Mama, you don't understand. I want to do this. I think I have to. Now Sybil's gone – "

This was enough to push Robert over the edge. He slapped his hands down onto the table with a loud crack and stood up. "No! There is no need to bring your sister into this!"

Cora looked distressed. "Robert please, sit down. Let's talk about this properly."

He shook his head. "I refuse to spend anymore of my time arguing with my daughters about their ridiculous plans for their future. I'm tired of it. He began to walk out of the room, rubbing his forehead. "You can do what you please, Edith. Just don't expect me to support you."

_**OoOoO**_

In the end it was all settled quite quickly. Edith had refused to back down, even after her mother tried to guilt her into staying by using Sybil's departure as weaponry.

"It's soon after your sister left. It upset your Father and I very much. Couldn't you wait just a year ir two before you try your plan? Will you do that for me, Edith?"

Saying no to that had been very difficult, but she had braved it through her Mother's reproachful glances and her Father's silence. It had all been made easier once Dorothy had actually come up for the weekend and painted this new life of theirs in exciting colours. Edith had been relieved to find that she liked Dorothy enormously. She was funny and intelligent and she made Edith feel nervous in the best way. You never quite knew what would happen when she was around. She had also been astonished to discover that Dorothy liked her. She wasn't used to people liking her when they didn't have to. It was a novelty that, for once, there was someone who actively wanted to be her friend.

Their relationship had been cemented during dinner on the Saturday evening, when Dorothy had, very cleverly, stood up to Mary. At the time, Mary had made one of her characteristically snide comments about Edith "going to London to work in a grocery shop." Dorothy had looked at Edith who had blushed and looked at her plate, before turning to Mary.

"I suppose you'll be quite lonely once Edith has left?" She had asked in a perfectly polite society-voice.

Mary had smiled. "I'm sure I'll manage."

"What do you do with yourself all day, Mary?" Dorothy had asked.

"I keep myself quite occupied."

"Do you read?"

"Not particularly, no. Sybil was the reader." Ignoring the sharp intake of breath that reverberated around the table at the mention of Sybil's name, Dorothy continued the questioning. "Do you involve yourself with charity work."

"No. You are showing me up to be quite selfish!" Both women laughed matching, icy laughs.

"Surely not, Lady Mary. Perhaps you ramble? The countryside here is so beautiful."

Robert came to Mary's rescue, even though he what been quite unaware that the conversation was anything other than friendly. "Mary doesn't walk. I don't think I've seen her in the fields since she was a little girl."

"I hunt." Mary said shortly.

"Gosh, you must be dreadfully bored outside the hunting season." Dorothy took a sip of wine and smiled brightly. "Maybe you'd benefit from working in a grocery shop!"

The whole table had laughed, including Mary, but Edith could see she had been rattled. Edith had looked gratefully at Dorothy, who had flashed her the wickedest grin she had ever seen, and a covert wink.

When they had parted at the train-station on Sunday morning, Edith had felt like she was bidding farewell to an old friend. As they stood on the cold station platform in the bright sunlight they chattered easily until the train arrived. As they said their goodbyes Dorothy embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks. "Oh we are going to have the most fabulous time, darling. I just knew you were the person I wanted to live with."

"I'm terribly glad you asked me. I'm surprised you want to live with someone as dull as me." Edith said.

"Edith, you aren't dull!" Dorothy shut the train door and pushed her head out of the little window. "Not dull in the slightest!" As the train pulled away she waved wildly, her green hat making her distinguishable even after her face had blurred into her hair.

Yes, Edith considered on the drive back home, she was looking forward to living with Dorothy Madison very much.

_**OoOoO**_

"So you're really going then?" Mary was sat on the edge od Edith's bed, watching her fill trunk after truk with clothes and jewellery and linens.

"Yes." Edith replied. She would rather have done this alone.; Mary would ruin the gravitas of the moment by demeaning her, she was sure of it.

"Have you told Sybil?"

"I wrote to her yesterday to tell her my new address. If I get letters then you can get Carson to send them on."

"You seem awfully cold about it all, Edith. I would have thought you might be sad to leave Downton."

Edith paused in folding a dress. "I don't feel sad at all. I'm more than ready to leave. I think I did a lot of growing up in the war, and I'm not ready to go back to how I was."

Mary looked at her. "You make me feel childish for wanting to stay here all my life. I should like to be like Granny, living in the Dower House when I'm 80."

"Well then I'll be Aunt Rosamund. I'll live in a big townhouse in the middle of the city with expensive jewellery. I don't think I shall mind growing old alone as much as I once thought." Edith was telling the truth. Over the last few months she had resigned herself to an unmarried, childless life and mad her peace with it. She had even begun to enjoy the prospect of a future with only herself to answer to.

Mary gave one of her rare, sincere smiles. "I shall always invite you for Christmas."

"Will you invite Sybil, too?"

"Oh, of course. By then she'll have a whole troupe of children – the Irish always seem to have thousands, don't they? I expect they'll be bringing them up with all their queer ideas."

"We'll be inundated with little Socialists at the dinner table!" They were both laughing now.

"I do miss her." Mary said quietly.

Edith sat down on the bed beside her. "So do I."

"I wish Papa had never employed him. Sybil would have been all right if he hadn't filled her head with silly ideas."

"She's always had silly ideas, you know that. And it wasn't Tom's fault. All they did was fall in love, you can understand that."

Mary sighed. "I suppose I can."

Edith patted her hand. "We will all be fine, you know. We will all be happy eventually."

"You read too many novels."

After Edith had finished packing, the two sisters felt that it was time for their farewell.

"I know we haven't always been the best of friends, but I shall miss you Edith." Mary kissed her sister on the cheek.

Edith felt oddly gratified. "Thankyou Mary. I will miss you too, I suppose."

"We have been beastly to eachother over the years, but I would like to part as friends."

"Edith nodded. "Of course we will. I think this will be good for us."

"We need each other now, don't we?" Mary put her hand on Edith's arm for a moment, and then she was gone. Maybe they were both finally tired of fighting.

_**OoOoO**_

_**Part Three is already written so should be up soon. If you've read and enjoyed please review, if you haven't enjoyed then please tell me how to improve!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN DOWNTON ABBEY.**

**A/N: thankyou so much everyone who has reviewed! I'm so happy people are enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.**

_**OoOoO**_

"Oh goodness, Edith darling I'm so sorry!" In a mess of blonde hair and green coat, Dorothy swooped down upon Edith and kissed her cheek before throwing herself down on the chair beside Edith's. They were in the lobby of the Savoy, where they had arranged to meet before they moved into their new home, and Edith had been waiting for two hours. She had managed to convince herself that Dorothy had changed her mind and found someone more exciting to live with without telling her when she arrived.

"I'd just about given you up. I thought you might have found me to boring after all!" She said, a slight flutter in her voice giving away the honesty of this statement.

Dorothy leaned forward and grabbed Edith's hands very earnestly. She had an expressive, excitable way of talking that meant she opened her eyes wide and made dramatic gestures, as if she was on the stage. "We need to get this one thing straight before we go any further: you must stop thinking that I don't want you lodging with me. You must stop putting yourself down. You aren't at Downton anymore and I am not your sister."

Edith smiled. She had only met Mary once and yet Dorothy had seen straight through her. "Don't be silly."

"I mean it, darling. You must promise me that all this self-doubt stops here. London is no place for self-doubt. We aren't debutantes anymore; we're beautiful, independent women with confidence." Dorothy's speech got louder at the end and the two men at the table next to them looked at her with distaste.

Edith laughed. "I promise."

"Good. Because I'm going to repeat this to you every morning until you believe it." Dorothy stood up and gathered up all her bags and parcels. "Shall we be off then?"

In the taxi Dorothy reached into one of the green Harrods bags and pulled out a beautiful felt cloche hat. "Isn't this delightful?" She held it up and gazed at it. It was peacock-blue with a bright feather in the velvet band.

Edith nodded, thinking that it would go very well with her winter coat. "It is." She hoped Dorothy would let her borrow it if she ever went somewhere smart. "It'll look lovely on you."

"Oh, I bought it for you!" She pressed it into Edith's hands. "As soon as I saw it I couldn't resist. I knew it would match your wonderful coat, and it's the very latest style. Oh put it on darling, I'm simply dying to see it on you."

Blushing, Edith did. "Do I look ridiculous?"

"Quite the opposite - you look like a fashion plate!" Dorothy picked up her green hat from her lap and put it on. "Now we'll really be the toast of the town when we go out together."

"It's very generous of you, are you absolutely sure you don't want it?"

"Of course not - consider it a living-in-London gift." Dorothy flashed her grin and leaned over to tell the driver that they had arrived and rolled open the window so they could get a better look at the house. "Well, what do you think?"

Edith looked out at a beautiful white townhouse with grand front steps and shiny black railings. It faced out onto a park with trees and benches, and Edith could tell that in the summer the flowerbeds would be riotous with colour. "It's wonderful. Which floor have we got?"

"Oh, we've ended up with all of them. Papa decided that it would be more of an investment to buy the whole house rather than rent a floor. I'm not sure exactly why; I try very hard to ignore everything financial, which his hard because he does so want me to be interested in money." Dorothy screwed up her face to show her displeasure.

Edith looked at her incredulously. "What on earth are we going to do with a whole house?"

"Fill it with people, silly! We're going to have the most marvellous parties in all of London." Dorothy got out of the can and Edith followed her. "Everyone is just desperate for parties; can't you feel it in the air? We're bored of the war and rationing and feeling guilty for surviving - let's just celebrate the fact that we are alive!" Dorothy grabbed her hand and pulled her up the frontsteps to hammer on the black front door.

"Oh hurry up Billings, we're HERE!" She called. The man who opened the door was really rather young for a butler, only about 40, but every other aspect of him reminded her of Carson. He had the same placid, slightly haughty expression and a deep, soft voice that managed to invoke authority and calm.

"Good afternoon, Lady Dorothy. Good afternoon, Lady Edith." He inclined his head to them in turn. "I shall send the footman to get your luggage."

"Thankyou, Billings." Dorothy answered for her. "There are some shopping bags in the taxi as well, if you could bring those in."

From the door they made their way into the entrance hall, which had shiny black and white tiles on the floor and a white marble staircase with a gold banister. There was a table with a bowl of White lilies on it and a big, circular mirror with a colourful geometric pattern round the frame. The lamp was made of coloured glass. Edith didn't know it at the time but her new home was already all set up for 1920's art-deco craze. Dorothy had always been ahead of the times, and had spent quite a long time on the interior decoration of the house.

"It's all so modern." Edith breathed. In Downton she felt the weight of her ancestors in every corridor, but this house was new and fresh and ready for young people to have fun in it.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Dorothy said. "The house wants us to be here and give it a good time."

It seemed fanciful to imagine a house with wants and desires of its own, but Edith did understand what she meant. The place was built for the purpose. "It really does."

"Come on upstairs and I can show you your rooms." They both trooped up the beautiful staircase and onto the first floor landing. The same understated modern elegance prevailed, with another square mirror and bowl of lilies. "This is my floor. There's my bedroom and bathroom and a little room for a dressing room and a sitting room which we can share. We'll have dinners downstairs and there's a drawing room down there as well, but I expect parties will just end up spreading all over the house. Now, come up the stairs again and this is your floor." Edith followed her, feeling a bit like Alice following the White Rabbit into some sort of wonderland.

They got up the stairs and Dorothy pushed open a door. "This is your bedroom. It was partly furnished already and then I went with Daddy to pick a few extra things. I hope you like them, but it is a bit different to Downton. If you want we can go and swap them?" Dorothy looked nervously at Edith, who was gazing into her new room in awe.

"Don't change a thing. It's perfect." She crossed the threshold onto the powder blue carpet and walked across to the window. As she parted the gauzy curtains she could look out onto Russell Sqaure and see the people milling around in the November cold. Underneath the window was a pale blue silk chaise-lounge, where she could already imagine lying curled up on cold evenings, looking out at London life continuing around her. Turning back into the room she looked across at the glass dressing table. The looking-glass had a strange, stark black and white pattern around it that attracted Edith. Like the floor and mirror downstairs, it was different from anything she had seen before. The bed was covered in blue velvet throws and silk pillows, and above it was a large framed picture of a frosty field, mist drifting across the strange blue sky.

"I picked the picture to remind you of home. Apparently it's somewhere in Yorkshire." Dorothy walked across to a door in the corner and pushed it open. "Here's your dressing room. And then your bathroom is just across the hall."

Edith followed, half reluctant to leave the beautiful bedroom . _Her_ beautiful bedroom. She needn't have worried though, because the bathroom was just as lovely. It had a square bath and white, shiny tiles and the window looked out onto the little square of garden behind the house. On the windowsill was a little vase of the ubiquitous white lilies, whose pretty scent seemed to have filled the house.

"Darling, what do you think? Do you still want to live here?" Dorothy took hold of one of her hands and held it tightly, looking at Edith with excited expectance.

Edith laughed a little incredulously. "Who wouldn't want to live here?"

"Oh I'm so pleased!" She threw her arms around Edith so unabashedly that it took her aback. They didn't really hug each other in the Crawley family. She couldn't remember the last time that she had put her arms around Mary in a manner that had been more than perfunctory. It felt nice to be on the receiving end of a gesture of such open affection. "Now, I'll have Matilda come up and draw you a bath. We have to get ready for tonight!"

"What's tonight?" Edith asked. Whatever it was she hoped she would have the right clothes for it.

"Darling David is going to take us out to Sheekey's, and then on to some cocktail bar with some writers that he knows." Dorothy skipped out of the room and began to jump down the stairs with all the energy of a toddler. "He's such a sweetie and he knows the most terribly interesting people, so it's bound to be a hoot! You must wear one of the dresses I just bought today, Edith. It will look so beautiful on you. I'll have it laid out for you!" In a swirl of blonde hair she was gone, leaving Edith in her room feeling excited and nervous.

**_OoOoO_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

"This dress is really quite short Dorothy. I'm not sure it's decent." They were waiting for Dorothy's friend at the bar in Sheekey's and Edith was panicking about her outfit. It had seemed such a good idea back at home; a daring, modern outward expression of her new daring, modern life. Here, in a restaurant, she just felt exposed. The dress was dark blue with a beaded gold neckline and pretty, floaty sleeves made from chiffon. It was drop-waisted in the latest style, with a line of beads along the waist band. The only problem with it was that it ended halfway down her calves. Edith couldn't help but think of what Granny would say.

"Stop being an old fuddy-duddy. This is the _fashion_. Look –" Dorothy pointed to a pretty woman sitting on a bar stool with a very handsome man. "Her's is far shorter."

"I suppose so. If it will get me talking to men like him then I'll just have to cope!"

"You don't want someone like him." Dorothy wrinkled her nose.

"Why on Earth not? He's heavenly."

"He's a member of the Middlesex regiment if I ever saw one."

Edith frowned. "What's wrong with that? I'm sure the Middlesex regiment have some very fine soldiers."

Dorothy erupted into peals of laughter so loud that everyone in the room turned to look at them. Once she had stopped and looked at Edith, she realised she hadn't been joking. "Darling, don't you know what I mean?" When Edith shook her head she lowered her voice. "That man is a Molly."

"A Molly?"

"A _ho-mo-sex-ual_." Dorothy articulated this word very delibreatley so Edith could be in no doubt of her meaning.

"Oh. Gosh. How can you tell?" Edith felt herself blushing. She had only ever heard of homosexuality from Mary after she had sat next to a particularly enlightened girl at a ball. They had spent hours giggling over it, wondering about the mechanics of something they knew very little about in the first place.

Dorothy waved her hand in the air. "You always can. You don't have anything gainst them, do you?"

Edith had never really thought about it. "No, I don't think so. I'm not sure I've met any before."

"Oh, you will soon. London's full of them and they're the most brilliant fun. They always know all the best people –" She broke off to wave at the blonde man who was being shown to a nearby table by the maître de. "David! Over here, darling!"

The man looked over and advanced towards Dorothy with his arms open. "Dotty! How are you?" They hugged and David looked over her shoulder at Edith. "And who is this beauty?"

"This is Lady Edith Crawley. We're rooming together in Russell Square."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Edith." He held out a small, white hand and she shook it. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about him dropping the 'Lady' so soon after meeting her, although she instinctively knew that if she wanted to break away from her old Downton life she might have to get used to it. Partly she was flattered that he wanted to be so intimate with her immediately.

"I was just telling Edith that that man over there was one of your lot." Dorothy nodded to the handsome man. "What do you think?"

"Undoubtedly." David made eye-contact with him and winked.

Edith realised what was going on and immediately looked away, pulling at the corners of a napkin to hide her inability to navigate this unknown situation.

"David's a raging homosexual himself, you know." Dorothy leaned across to impart this information.

"Absolutely raging." David added.

"I see." Edith decided that she had to try harder to seem like this was something she encountered every day. She wanted to know how Dorothy – who had just as sheltered upbringing as she had – had met all these people.

"Right, ladies what are we drinking?" David called his hands and led them to their table.

"Champagne, Davey." Dorothy said. "Only ever champagne at Sheekey's."

_OoOoO_

By the time they left Sheekey's Edith had had more to drink than ever before and she was feeling much the better for it. Her head was spinning, but so much that she felt like she might fall down, and everything seemed perfectly wonderful. David had one woman on each arm, and as they strode down the street, all of them giggling, he declared that everyone would think him the luckiest man in all of London with two beautiful creatures hanging off his arm.

"Where are we going now, Davey darling?" Dorothy asked.

"A little jazz club off Harcourt Street."

"My sister lives on Harcourt Street!" Edith declared excitedly.

"Why, we must invite her along too!" David declared. "If she's anything like you she'll be most welcome."

"I'm not sure we can. She lives on Harcourt Street in Dublin, you see. With her husband who used to be a chauffeur but now he's a journalist, which Granny likes a lot better. And Sybil's not like me. She's much sweeter and good. She gets all political about things, too." Her mouth felt strangely numb, and she realised she was speaking quite loudly and that her sentences were getting mixed up.

"Politics." David nodded sagely.

"Politics." Dorothy echoed.

Edith laughed for no reason at all. "Gosh I feel terribly giddy."

"It'll be all the champagne, darling."

"I better not have any more champagne. I don't know what Mary would say if she knew that I was drunk in London with a homosexual."

"Don't worry, there won't be any champagne at the club. Only gin." David said.

"Gin won't get me drunker, will it?"

Dorothy leaned across him to pat Edith's arm. "Not a bit, darling. Gin is practically a health cure."

The club, when they arrived just after midnight, was smoky and dark. There was a jazz band on the stage and people were dancing a strange, joyful dance on the ground below them. The tables around the dancefloor were small and beautiful, exotic people were crammed around them smoking, drinking and laughing. Edith thought they seemed like a different breed of people to all those she had met before.

David seemed to know everyone, and Dorothy recognized plenty of people herself, so Edith was just beginning to feel a tiny bit sober and sidelined when somebody tapped her on the shoulder.

"Lady Edith? Is that you?"

She turned to see a good-looking man with wavy dark hair smiling questioningly at her. "Evelyn Napier!" She exclaimed. "Gracious!"

Evelyn laughed in pleasant astonishment. "I wasn't sure if it was you or not – you look different. You look very well." She noticed he was looking at her appreciatively. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here now, with Dorothy Madison. In Bloomsbury." She got a little thrill out of saying that.

He looked impressed and not a little surprised. "Well done Edith. It must be a bit different from Downton. How are your parents - your Mother completely recovered after the flu?"

"Yes completely, thank goodness. They'll all fine."

"And Lady Mary?"

"She's very well. You are coming up for the wedding at Christmas, aren't you?"

Evelyn smiled. "Of course. I'm glad to hear she's well." There was a slightly uncomfortable silence where he should have asked after her younger sister.

"Sybil's quite all right as well." Edith said, sticking her chin out in defiance. Champagne had made her bold.

"Ah, yes. Good." Evelyn looked uncomfortable, and Edith felt a little guilty. They passed another ten minutes comfortably talking about mutual friends until Dorothy came and swept her away. "I'm going to have to steal her from you now, Mr. Napier." She twinkled her eyes at him.

"That's quite all right." He turned to Edith. "Listen, you must give me your address. I will call on you very soon and we can go to dinner."

Edith eagerly scrawled her address in his little notebook and they parted, her feeling triumphant and hazy.

"Ugh, why did you do that?" Dorothy made a face as she guided Edith to a table near the corner of the bar. "You'll actually have to go with him now."

"What's wrong with that? He used to be one of Mary's prospects, but he threw her over." Edith smirked. "I can't wait to tell her that he's asked me to dinner."

Dorothy frowned and stopped walking. "Edith, I'm going to put a stop to this. You are due a lot better than Mary's cast-off's, especially when they're as dull as Evelyn Napier. This is your first night in London and you're already imagining your wedding to the first man you meet - there's no use telling me that you aren't because I can see the white lace in your eyes."

Edith looked at the floor. "I feel like you're my governess."

"Good. I imagine you were always the sort of girl to listen to your governess. Now come and meet David's friends."

He was sat at the table with a man and a woman. While the woman was not pretty or delicate, she had a striking, memorable face with a strong jaw and very thick dark hair, secured with sparkling emerald hairpins. The man was dark-haired and swarthy. He looked like one of those people who would sit at the back of the room and remember everything that everyone had said. There was something unnerving in the way he rubbed his bottom lip with his index finger while looking at her – it made Edith feel as if she was being judged.

David stood up and handed her a glass. "Your gin. Darling, this is Vanessa and this is Duncan. It's far too complicated to explain how we all know each other so I shall say we are great friends and leave it at that. Vanessa, Duncan; I would like to introduce you to Edith. She's fabulous fun, especially for a Lady."

Vanessa shook her hand and Duncan inclined his head, still watching her with his flickering eyes. The others talked wittily for a while until Duncan took Dorothy to dance and David went to speak to an old friend at the bar, leaving Edith and Vanessa alone.

"So what do you do, Edith?" She asked. Her voice was thick and smoky, and in Edith's impaired state she felt like it invited confidences.

"I'm not terribly sure, really. I like driving, very much, but there isn't much call for that in London. I did some war-work on a farm, but that's not very London either." She sighed. "I need a vocation. I suppose the war gave me one for a while, but I'm certainly not cut out to be a nurse. My sister's a nurse and I wouldn't enjoy all the medical things. I like making people happy in some way, I suppose."

Vanessa lit a cigarette and watched her seriously. "That's honourable enough. You just need to find out how."

"Somebody once told me I should be a writer. I quite like the idea of that, only I'm not sure where to start."

"My sister writes. Novels and essays and the like." Vanessa blew out a cloud of smoke. "She always says that you start writing from something you know and feel, and then you can extrapolate from that. And if you want to make people happy then make them laugh. People are rarely as happy as when they laugh. Write comedies."

"Do people want to laugh? No-one at home seems to have wanted to laugh very much since the war."

"People are _dying_ to laugh." Vanessa said. "Just make them."


	5. Chapter 5

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

"Am I supposed to feel this frightful after champagne?" Edith was lying in bed and Dorothy was sat cross-legged in pink silk pyjamas on the chaise-lounge. She had crept into her bedroom with a cup of tea just as Edith had decided that she must be dying.

"Bearing in mind we each drank a bottle of it, I think we've got off lightly." Dorothy looked like a little girl in the morning. Her hair was plaited down her back and her face was pale. Edith realised she must have been wearing make-up last night because her eyes looked smaller too.

"I can't remember getting home." Edith mumbled, covering her eyes with her hand. She had a blistering headache and even the thought of daylight hurt.

"I think Duncan called us a taxi. I'm not sure. Billings was waiting up for us." Dorothy sipped her tea. "Wasn't it the most splendid evening though?"

Edith thought about the dress and the dinner and the smoky jazz club and nodded. "I'm not sure when I last had that much fun." It had been an experience in itself not to have anyone to answer to, or tut in disapproval when she laughed too loudly or did something 'middle class'.

"What did you think of David?"

"I liked him. He was very easy to get along with." Edith meant it, he had been lovely to be with all night and incredibly generous. Actually, she was beginning to wonder if that was a good thing.

"He is_ such _a sweetheart."

"How do you know him?"

Dorothy was quiet for a moment. "I met him before the war. I had a friend who introduced us."

"Oh, do I know them?" Edith asked.

"No. You don't. And he's dead now so it doesn't matter anyway." For a moment Dorothy looked deeply sad, and Edith almost thought she saw anger on her pretty, angular face. "But that is a story for another time!" The seriousness was gone, and Dorothy clearly didn't want to be questioned further. "Shall I get Matilda to bring our breakfasts up here so we can eat them together?"

Breakfast turned out to be a poached egg with thick, white toast and a bowl of fresh fruit. Once Edith started eating she discovered she was starving, and finished it off in a manner that was most unladylike.

"You're lucky we were on champagne. If we'd been drinking whisky you would have had your head in the toilet this morning. Whisky will make you sick as a dog." Dorothy told her, waving a rice of toast in the air as she spoke. "What did you think of Duncan and Vanessa?"

"I thought Duncan was very quiet. I kept feeling like he was watching what I was doing so he could write it all down afterwards." Edith said. "Vanessa was quite wonderful, though. She was terribly glamorous."

"I must take up cigarette smoking." Dorothy agreed. "She made it look so beautiful."

"I did like them, but they scared me a bit." Edith admitted. "I'm not sure I've met anyone like them before."

"I know what you mean. They scare me a bit too. It's because they're bohemians, and our sort of people have never really mixed with bohemians. The romantics were bohemians and they weren't even allowed in the National Gallery by our lot. I have to make a real effort not to be intimidated."

Edith felt a lot better after Dorothy had said this. It was comforting to know that she wasn't quite as daring and at ease with those sort of people as she appeared. They sat in silence for a while, pouring more tea and feeling comfortable and full. "What did you come here for, Dorothy" She asked eventually, breaking the peace. In all of her chatter and excitement, Dorothy had never really explained why she wanted to move to London in the first place.

"I expect I came here for the same thing you did: a bit of fun. I spent the whole war down in Dorset, bored out of mind and sick with worry. You're lucky not to have brothers – you cannot imagine what it was like to have two of them fighting. By the end of it my Mother and I had nearly driven each other mad and my nerves were in pieces.

"Your brothers came through all right, though?"

"They were about the only ones who did." Dorothy said. "Almost all of the men we came out with were killed or injured, weren't they? All of my friends, everyone who I had ever sat next to at a ball or shared a taxi with… Everyone lost someone." She sighed. "I was talking to Isobel Lavery last week – Bobby's sister – and she was saying that Bobby has been having a terrible time of it. He was at Ypres, you see. Apparently he screams all night long and sometimes he even… soils himself."

"Which is better – living a haunted half-life or lying dead in some field? Some of the men at Downton made me wonder. They looked like they wished they'd been left in France." Edith said.

"Michael is fine," Dorothy was speaking about her brothers now. "Or, he acts fine. He's thrown himself back into running the estate as if he never left. I'm not sure if it's just an act, though. One day I'm certain he'll turn around and discover that the horrors are still behind him."

"You can't run from your own shadow." Edith murmured.

"Michael thinks he can. Maybe Tommy should be trying a bit harder, though. I know he's not as bad as many, but he was there at the Somme and he saw things that he can't leave behind. He talks a lot about pacifism now, which upsets Father no end, and he's setting great store by this League of Nations idea." Dorothy ran a hand down her plait and began to unravel it. "He was such a brave little boy when he left – and clever, he was going to go to Oxford - but now he seems very old and sad. I don't think 22 year olds should hate people as much as he does."

"We were so lucky." Edith said, feeling incredibly guilty for not having suffered more. "Luckier than we had a right to be."

"Oh, so were we. We got our boys back. Father still has his heir and his spare, which is more than a lot of families have. I suppose we shouldn't grumble." Dorothy moved and sat on the edge of Edith's bed. She was more serious and reflective than Edith had ever known her, and she felt privileged to have been allowed to see past the frippery of the surface. "I came to London because I didn't want to think about the war anymore. I had four years of being frightened and nearly two more of being bored and mournful. I'm 25 years old and I haven't really _done_ anything yet." Dorothy threw her hands wide and flopped back onto the bed, Christ-like. "So why did you agree to come with me, then? It's your turn."

Edith felt ashamed telling her the real reason. Yes, the war had been awful, but for Edith it had also meant emancipation. "I think the war was the best time of my life." She said simply. "I might not have been doing anything selfless like nursing, but I learnt to drive and I worked ona farm and I felt like I was helping people in my own little way. I suppose I felt happier when people stopped minding that I was I was unmarried with no offers, because I stopped minding so much too. It was easier to be me during the war because I wasn't just Mary's ugly sister. I know it's wicked and selfish but it's true."

"No, I think it's marvellous. You made something good come out of it. All I did was stew in my own misery."

"When the war ended it felt like everyone expected things to go back to normal. I was the Maiden Aunt again before I'd even realised it. Nobody wondered if I minded." Edith smiled wryly. "Sybil was always saying that things would have to change for women after the war, because we wouldn't be able to go back to how things were. She was right."

"So you chucked in flower arranging and being your sister's dinner table joke for champagne and jazz." Dorothy said.

"Exactly." Edith decided not to say anything about Patrick yet. She was not ready to explain how she had loved for as long as she could remember, and how she had lost him three times; once to Mary, once to the Titanic and once again to God knows where. Her family had abandoned them both when there had been a chance he was still alive, and that pain remained too raw to articulate properly. That betrayal and the bitterness that had lingered after it had made her more desperate to leave Downton and her family than everything else put together, but Edith couldn't bear to speak it all aloud yet.


	6. Chapter 6

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

About four weeks after they had moved in together, Dorothy burst into Edith's bedroom with a fashion magazine in one hand and a pair of silver kitchen scissors in the other. Edith was sat at her writing desk reading a letter from Sybil, but abandoned it when she saw that Dorothy had that certain gleam in her eye. Edith had come to love and fear that gleam over the last month. It always meant that something exciting but quite possibly terrifying was about to happen. She had had it when they had decided to go on to a bottle party in the wrong end of Kensington and ended up being driven home by the son of the Marquis of Kent. Dorothy had vomited into her handbag so as not to cause any mess in the back of the new car, while Edith had sat in the front and repeatedly said "Oh please don't tell Granny, please don't tell Granny." Of course, they couldn't actually remember any of this – the son had told them the next day when he had returned Dorothy's scarf. Edith had discovered that memory-loss was a side-effect of living with Dorothy Madison.

"Well?" Edith asked expectantly, a smile already pulling at the corners of her lips.

"I'm going to cut your hair." She said.

"Are you?"

Dorothy rushed into the room and spread the magazine out on the desk. It was open on a page with a pretty model showing off the latest bob haircut. Next to it was a list of instructions on how to copy the style yourself. "You see! Look how easy it is…" Dorothy had her wheedling voice on. She stuck out her bottom lip and pouted.

Edith laughed. She could resist Dorothy's charms and she wasn't about to let her have her way just because she could make a pretty sad-face. She had grown up with Sybil, who was even more effective at it than Dorothy, and Edith had grown completely immune after years of being on the receiving end of quavering lower lips and pleading eyes to get the last slice of cake. "Why don't you cut _your _hair?"

"Because I'd look like a male toad with short hair, darling." Dorothy replied.

"What makes you think I wouldn't?"

"Bone structure. You've got just the right sort of face. And you always pin your hair up, so you've practically bobbed it already. I'm just making things more… official." Dorothy began to pull the pins out of Edith's hair and brush it through. "Just look how nice it would look… I wouldn't do it right up to your ears, just to your jawline…"

Edith watched in the mirror as Dorothy pulled her hair up so it looked like she had cut it. Part of her was still thinking that this was a _very bad idea, _but the rest felt that nervous thrill of excitement that accompanied one of Dorothy's grand plans. She thought about Mary mentioning Paris haircuts and claiming she might get one, with no intention of ever doing anything so radical to her appearance. She was too used to being beautiful to risk it, but Edith wasn't. Edith was used to fading into the background – not dark enough to be striking like her sisters and not blonde enough to be pretty like Dorothy. What would bobbing her hair do that would be worse than feeling invisible? Even if it looked terrible she'd be noticed in a crowd, and remembered afterwards. She touched the locks of hair that had dropped over her shoulder. It was nothing special. Not much to worry about really. "Can I have the scissors please, Dorothy?"

Dorothy handed them over and watched as Edith took a hunk of hair in her hand and held it out till it was pulled straight. Then, with a decisive snip, it was gone. The hair – it was no longer anything to do with her – fell onto her lap and Edith looked down at it. Without a second thought she brushed it away and gave the scissors back to Dorothy, a large smile on her face.

"Do the rest. Do it just like you said, to my jaw." She watched as Dorothy snipped and cut and consulted the magazine, and in the mirror a new girl emerged before her. Edith watched this girl who was her and not her, and felt strange. This girl was bold and daring and cut off all her hair just because she wanted to. This girl wouldn't sit crying in her bedroom because she had been passed over – yet again – for Mary. This girl took charge of her own life.

"Didn't I tell you how wonderful you'd look, darling?" Dorothy asked, practically bouncing up and down with excitement when she had finished. "Just look at you jaw line!" She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. Edith envied the ease with which she did it – it was a habit that Dorothy looked like she had been doing all her life, whereas Edith still had to bite back a cough during the first pull. "Want one?" She asked, exhaling a trail of smoke.

Edith nodded, running her fingers through her new hair. When she had the cigarette in her mouth she watched herself smoking in the mirror. It looked right now. It suddenly suited her just as much as it did Dorothy or Vanessa.

"Gosh, darling, you are the absolute image of the Modern Girl!" Dorothy said, pointing to a double-page article about this phenomenon. It was the term the papers had coined for these new, radical girls who drank and smoked and danced and wanted to have a good time. Edith would never have included herself in this bracket before – Dorothy was the Modern Girl while she was the friend along for the ride – but suddenly she felt like one too. She inhaled again and breathed out slowly, her head somewhere else entirely. Sybil had always been ahead of her time, and she probably always would be. The world was beginning to alter, but not yet enough to accommodate all of Sybil's hopes and dreams. Mary had been perfect for_her_ time, but now that time had passed. The war had put an end to her particular idea of the world, and Edith knew that she realised she had been left behind by the new youth. But Edith had never felt quite comfortable. Until now. She was a Modern Girl, and this was her time.

"Right, where are we going tonight?" She asked.


	7. Chapter 7

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

By the time they got to the barge the party was in full swing. Edith hadn't exactly been sure how a 'barge party' would work, but when they arrived she could see why Dorothy had been so excited. It was a warm night, and people were spread out all over the place. Men and women were lying and sitting on the roof of the boat, smoking and drinking and laughing extravagantly. She could see a pair of long, pale legs sticking out of one of the portholes and the men on the dock were play-fighting with each other, getting dangerously close to the water while the girls perched next to them squealed. Jazz music floated across the air.

For a brief moment Edith wondered if it was all too soon after the war. Was all this purposeless _joy _an insult to death and destruction that had destroyed their generation? Or was it purposeless? Was this just the reaction to the slaughter of their friends, brothers and fathers – to dance and laugh and drink it all away? Sometimes she saw – or rather felt – a sadness in Dorothy that bubbled away under her desperation to have fun. But then again, weren't they all hiding a sadness nowadays?

"Come on Edith!" Dorothy pulled her onto the deck of the barge, and Edith felt light-headed from the ebb and flow of the water and the champagne she and Dorothy had drunk while getting ready.

"Whose barge is this again?" Edith asked as they pushed through the crowd of people.

"A friend. Sebastian. He's a painter."

"How did you meet him?" Edith was always astounded by the amount of people Dorothy knew.

"A man I knew." Dorothy plonked the gin they had brought down on a table and grabbed two chipped teacups, which looked slightly grubby. "Right – now let's drink."

And they drank. Everyone else was already well past the point of no return, so they had to knock back the gin to catch up. As always, Dorothy was spirited away by one of the crowd of people she knew, so Edith flitted around and chatted to people. She found it easier here, in London, where nobody knew who she was, to talk to people she didn't know.

"Your hair is just the cat's pyjamas." A girl leaned through an open porthole and patted Edith on the shoulder. "I've been wanting to cut mine like that but I can never quite pluck up the courage. You're just so brave!"

Edith smiled. "I'm not sure anybody's called me brave before."

"Well you are." The girl handed cigarette to her before she even asked for one. "And look how it's paid off! You're a beauty!"

Things became hazy, people blurring into one another and songs all sounding the same. She danced the Charleston with a boy in a flat cap and a girl in a blue silk dress, before all three fell down laughing on a little settee.

"Isn't this a brilliant party?" The girl said.

"The floor sways, doesn't it? I feel like I'm swaying one way and the floor is swaying another." Edith giggled, laying her head on the seat next to her. She only closed her eyes for what felt like a minute, but when she opened them again the man and girl had vanished, and another man was in their place.

"Hello, Titania." He said, smiling at her.

"Titania?"

"The Faerie Queen. A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Edith wrinkled her nose. "I know who she is, but why did you call me Titania?"

"Because she was beautiful, and so are you."

Edith sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Don't be silly."

"You are a Faerie Queen and I am merely Bottom, hoping for your affection." He raised his hand to his heart and Edith laughed, in spite of herself. She noticed that he was rather handsome, even though he had dark shadows under his eyes and stubble on his jaw. There was something earnest in his expression, and he was looking at her in a deep way that drew her to him.

"_What angel wakes me from my flowery bed_?" She quoted obligingly, making him laugh in delight. "I'm Edith." She sat up straight and holding out her hand.

"And I am Walter Clarkson." He took her hand and kissed it.

A drunken girl flopped down next to them and began to vomit out of the window. They both watched her in disgust until Walter took hold of her hand again. "Shall find somewhere else to talk, Edith?" He asked.

She nodded, strangely entranced by him, and they made their way through the dancers to a small door. When opened, it turned out to be a tiny bedroom. People were already in there, but as they opened the door they spilled out into the hull of the boat. The room was empty then, apart from a cup of cigarette ash and a bottle of gin. She crossed over and sat on the unmade bed – a man's unmade bed, and one she didn't even know – drinking straight from the bottle. For a moment she thought of Mr. Drake and that night on the farm, but pushed it out of head as quickly as it came. "So, what do you do then, Walter?"

He sat next to her and lit a cigarette. "I'm a journalist. I review gallery exhibitions and plays, mostly."

"Gosh, that sounds interesting." She said. "I'd love to write."

"Journalism?" He asked.

She blushed, and suddenly felt embarrassed, despite the gin. "I'm not sure. I think I'd really like to write, you know, prose. Short stories. Plays, maybe." She stretched. "I don't mean anything that will change the world. I'd just like to make people laugh."

"Who says that won't change the world?" Walter leaned closer to her and she could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath, just like he could smell the gin on hers. He kissed her then, pressing himself against her in a way that was forceful but not unpleasant. His lips were soft and his stubble tickled her chin. His hand was on her thigh, and she could feel the heat through her flimsy dress. Her own hands were wrapped around his back. The jazz was still playing and pretty, feminine laughter drifted through the open window to them and slowly, as if in a dream full of vivid colours, she felt herself falling back onto the bed. It could have been the alcohol or the gentle rocking of the boat – or it could have been the way that Walter was caressing her neck. She felt a bit like she should make some attempt to stop him – even if only for propriety's sake – but she didn't want him to stop. She wanted him to carry on, and suddenly Edith understood how Mary had ended up surrendering her virtue to Mr. Pamuk. When someone was making you feel this beautiful and this _desired, _you forgot to think about whether it was right or not.

"You really are beautiful." Walter murmured in a low, throaty voice. She was about to dismiss this, but he stopped her with another kiss, and then another and another until she had lost count. The world was throbbing around her and she was throbbing with it as Walter slowly pushed down the straps of her dress. Her skin felt like it was on fire; every part of her burned with this new, heightened sensitivity and she had to hold herself back from moaning as he began to nibble down the curve of her neck, to her collarbone and then lower again.

Then, it was all over. Somebody pushed open the unlocked door and Walter stopped his efforts immediately, leaving Edith feeling disappointed and relived in equal measure. She wasn't sure where she would have drawn the line. "Edith, darling, _this_ is where you are!" The intruder was Dorothy, looking flushed with drink. Her eyes were laughing as she looked at the pair on the bed; Walter with Edith's lipstick on his chin and she pulling her dress back up. "You can't hide in a bedroom now – they're just about to set the fireworks off!"

"Fireworks?" Edith asked, weakly.

"Yes, Simon's on the hull of the boat with them now. Come on, darling. And bring your new friend."

They got out onto the roof and sat there, Dorothy and Edith next to each other and Walter behind her. His hand remained perilously low on her back, and when they sat down he began to run his fingers up and down her spine in such a delicious way that Edith couldn't keep her mind on what Dorothy was saying. Who was this man? Why had she allowed him to do such things to her?

"Here." Walter handed her the cigarette he had just lit, and Edith took it gratefully, pleased to have something to do with her hands. He smiled wryly at her, as if he knew the tailspin her mind was in. "Quick – the fireworks are about to go off!" He pointed at the prow of the boat where a man, probably Sebastian, was inexpertly lighting the bottom of a cylinder. Edith whipped around to watch – fireworks were such a novelty that she felt childishly excited at the thought of seeing one now.

When it did go off, everybody screamed and lurched sideways to escape its fiery trajectory. Instead of erupting into the air, it shot sideways before exploding over the deck. Everyone on the opposite side of the boat – including Edith, Dorothy and Walter – was tipped unceremoniously off the top of the boat and into the water as it rocked and swayed in an attempt to right itself. It was a good job that it wasn't very deep, because the party were too drunk to do much swimming. As it was, they all got a good shock and swallowed some highly unpleasant Thames water, but bobbed up laughing and joking as if this had been the intention all along. A couple of women still held their glasses in their hands and merrily held them out to the people still sat on the dock so they could be refilled. The Bright Young People, as they would come to be known, would not have their party ruined by a little dip in the river.

"Ugh!" Dorothy spat a stream of water out and made a face. "My dress is going to be completely spoiled!"

Edith started laughing, and found that she could not stop. The sight of Dorothy, hair sticking to her head in clumps and elaborate eye makeup smudged round her eyes, doggy-paddling in her beautiful dress was too funny for words. "You're so _disgruntled_!" She shrieked, as Dorothy looked sulkier by the second.

The party broke up soon after that, with people going home in wet clothes smelling of river-water and firework smoke. Walter called a taxi for Edith and Dorothy, and as he held open their door he asked where he would be able to find her again.

Dorothy leaned across Edith and said "We live in Number 25, Russell Square, and we would be just _delighted_ for you to visit."

As they drove away Edith looked at Dorothy, horror struck. "Why did you tell him that?"

Dorothy giggled. "Because he seemed interesting, and he was interested in you, and I don't think a man should be able to remove any items of clothing without you getting a meal out of him." She leaned forward and rubbed Edith's chin, clucking sympathetically. "Poor darling, you're going to have stubble burn tomorrow morning. You can borrow some of my cold cream. I do wish men would make sure they shave regularly if they plan on seducing us, it's awfully inconvenient to kiss one when their chin feels like sandpaper."

Edith didn't say that she'd rather like it, and her red, swollen lips felt more like proof that she was somebody who could be desired and considered beautiful than an inconvenience.


	8. Chapter 8

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

It was a rainy afternoon and Edith was sitting in the drawing room, listening to jazz records on the gramophone and reading 'Dubliners', a collection of short stories by James Joyce that Sybil had recommended to her. She was enjoying them. The house was peaceful and quiet, mainly because Dorothy had gone out on a mysterious 'lunch date' that she had yet to return from. Edith sighed and stretched. She had been feeling a little purposeless over the last few days. There were only so many parties you could go to before you realised that you weren't actually doing anything with your time. She had begun to think about finding employment again, but the idea of working in a shop had lost its gleam.

Niggling in the back of her mind was the advice of Vanessa and Walter, telling her to write if she wanted to. Edith had used to make up stories when she was a little girl; it was the only time when Mary had wanted to spend any time with her. When Sybil had been just a baby, Mary had used to sit next to Edith in their little nursery bed and Edith had continued the stories the Nurse had told them, taking the Princesses to fantastical and far-fetched places that had far exceeded the ones Hans Christian Anderson had written. Those nights had been the only times she remembered being friends with Mary in their childhood, the only times they hadn't fought over toys or dresses or – as they got older – boys. One night Mary had loftily told Edith that she had outgrown stories and Edith must be a baby to still want to tell them. Edith still remembered that feeling of smarting embarrassment that had flooded through her at that moment. That had been when she started confining her story telling to pen and paper, when it had become something she was slightly ashamed of. If she was so inclined, Edith knew she would be able to recover all her notebooks from the ages of 12 to 17; filled with little tales about beautiful dark-haired boys called Patrick and sad girls with awkward faces who faded into the wallpaper. After that she had given up and written diaries where she pretended she had had fun during her Season, rather than felt like a gawky disappointment. After Patrick had died she had given up writing altogether. It became too painful to try and articulate what had happened to him. Edith had found solace in hundreds of other people who had loved and lost and written poetry and novels about it, and given up any ideas of writing her own. She really admired the new crop of war poets who had been able to rationalise their pain into stanza's and syllables and rhythms.

She wondered if it was time to try again. She kept thinking about Vanessa:_"And if you want to make people happy then make them laugh. People are rarely as happy as when they laugh. Write comedies."_ Write comedies. Edith thought that Granny was like a character in a comedy already. She had even begun to make a list of things that she could turn into funny stories; The Flower Show that Granny always won; the endless little power struggles between her and Isobel; even Mary featured, being cruel to Manchester Matthew in the days before she had loved him. All these ideas had stayed confined to a silly bit of paper stuffed in her stocking draw, taking root and growing in her uncertain mind.

"Yoo-_hoo_!" Edith's thoughts were interrupted by Dorothy's loud, sing-song voice calling echoing through the house.

"I'm up here! In the drawing room!" She called, turning down the gramophone. Edith heard Dorothy running up the stairs and wondered what on earth all the commotion was for.

"I've got a job!" Dorothy appeared in the door of the room and then ran across to Edith, throwing her arms around her.

"You've what?" Edith asked.

"I've got a job! A real, proper job!" She began to bounce up and down with excitement.

Edith laughed at her childlike excitement. "Doing what?"

Dorothy stopped bouncing and took a step back, straightening her pretty lavender skirt and silk blouse. She assumed a serious expression and said, "I, Dorothy Madison, am going to be a secretary at an art gallery."

"Really? How? When did you learn to type?"

"Oh, I did a correspondence course in typing and shorthand during the war when I was trying not to go mad. And it paid off!" She grinned.

"Do you know anything about art?" Edith asked.

"Yes. I do, actually. Quite a lot." She said nonchalantly.

"How?"

"I used to know an artist. He taught me all about it." She shrugged dismissively. "I start tomorrow! I have a _job,_ Edith!"

_OoOoO_

"Now Dorothy has a job I feel at a bit of a loose end again." Edith shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee and sighing.

Walter looked at her with raised eyebrows. "Writing's a job."

She rolled her eyes in exaggerated frustration. "You never give up, do you?"

"Never." Walter had gotten in to the habit of turning up at irregular intervals to take Edith out for coffee or lunch or dinner or cocktails. He never gave any notice and she always fussed around pretending to have other things to do, but she always went. She enjoyed his company; he was funny and interesting and he seemed to want to spend time with her. When they went out he talked to her about the plays he had been to see and the reviews he'd written, but he always returned to the subject of her writing.

"I wish I'd never said anything to you." Edith said.

"Of course you don't. Someone has to nag you into being brave until you can do it yourself."

"You've got me all wrong. I'm not brave at all." She pushed her fork around her empty plate.

"I think, Edith, that you _are _brave. You just need someone to push you into it at first." Walter stood up from the table. "Would you care to take a stroll around the park with me?"

"Why not?" Edith smiled, and took his arm. They sauntered out of the café and onto the street, laughing and joking. They had slipped very easily into the pattern of old friends, albeit old friends who shared passionate – very passionate – kisses on doorsteps and in empty drawing rooms. Occasionally Edith wondered if she should put an end to their dalliance, but whenever she began to think she really should, Walter kissed her again and she decided that it couldn't hurt. Dorothy said she had kissed lots of men – and done more besides – and that it was perfectly alright.

"Honestly though, I really think you should write something. All those things you've told me about your Grandmother – she's a hoot!" Walter said. "And your sister's elopement has all the characteristics of a proper little high society play! The theatres are full of them, and everyone wants to read about the upper classes in magazines." He lit a cigarette and they stood in front of a little fountain for a moment, watching two magpies playing about in the water. "Just try it for me. Write a little short story and I can get it published for you in a magazine I know."

Edith looked away. "I'm really not sure I _can_…"

He kissed her then, right in the middle of the park in broad daylight, and Edith wondered if it was alright to _want _someone this much but not to want to fall in love with them or marry them, just to kiss them. "Please?" He whispered. "I know you can do it, Edith."

She nodded. The earnestness in his eyes was all she needed to convince her. It was enough to know that here was someone who believed she could do it if she wanted to. "Alright then. I'll try."


	9. Chapter 9

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

Edith hadn't really intended to write anything. She had thought that she would scribble for an hour or two and then give up. Then, she would be able to tell Walter that she had tried but that it turned out writing wasn't for her and he would give up on the whole idea. Instead, what happened was quite different.

She returned home from her lunch and found her fingers itching for a pen. After telling Billings that she was not to be disturbed, she retired to her bedroom and sat at her desk, fizzing with possibility. She thought about making people laugh, and she thought about the need to _escape _that seemed to haunt England. Suddenly, the idea came to her. Edith remembered a garden party in what felt like the last real summer, when the sun had shone and all the women had worn dresses in pretty, pastel colours that they had then packed away for four years. In her mind, it seemed to be the last day when people were unreservedly happy, completely oblivious to the horror that would consume them over the next few years and claim their sons, brothers and friends.

But Edith also remembered more about that day. She remembered being one-upped by Mary, yet again, and that defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory. The loss of Sir Anthony had been a bitter blow (not heart-breaking, though, for after Patrick's death her heart was too shattered to ever be properly repaired), but with hindsight Edith could see that perhaps she could make the incident comical. Yes. A last, glorious garden party in the last Edwardian summer and a humorous tale of upper-class sibling rivalry. Wasn't that what Walter had told her people wanted to read? Edith tucked her hair behind her ears, pulled her notebook towards her and picked up her pen.

She wrote for three hours, smoking six cigarettes and using eight sheets of paper. Day turned to dusk and the fire needed lighting, but Edith didn't notice. She was caught up in the act of writing. She had forgotten how cathartic it was to put things down on paper, and was reminded why she had spent so much time writing about Patrick. An incident that had festered away inside her for years was suddenly out on the page as a moment of humour. It would be something inconsequential for a woman to laugh at in one of her magazines, and then set aside.

In the story, Mary became an exaggeratedly beautiful, malicious older sister while Edith parodied herself into a mouse-like, down-trodden, plain and pathetic middle sister. She turned Sir Anthony into a man that nobody else could even consider marrying, a figure of fun that made Edith's character seem even more pitiably comical. After she had finished it – with an exact copy of reality; Mary raising her glass across the crowd in a salute of victory – Edith sat back on her chair and sighed. Writing had felt like a physical exertion, and she was proud of herself for having started and finished a story in one sitting. After a moment looking out onto the darkened street below, she lit another cigarette and began to read over what she had written, marking mistakes and improvements with a pencil.

_OoOoO_

"Dorothy?"

"Yes, darling?" Dorothy was sat cross-legged on the sofa, reading a magazine. It was a Saturday afternoon and they were both killing time before getting ready for that night's excursion. They were going to a masked ball to celebrate the 30th birthday of Dorothy's boss. He had hired out a whole theatre for it, including backstage and the balconies, and both women were expecting a very grand evening. He had even hired a chef to cook breakfast at dawn for those who had made it through the night, and Dorothy had already told Edith that they would definitely be there.

"I was wondering if…" Edith began hesitantly, "if you would read this for me? Give me your honest opinion on it."

Dorothy held out her hand for the black notebook that Edith was holding. "Of course. Did you write it? Is this what Walter has been nagging you for?"

Edith nodded. "Yes. It's only a bit of silliness. I did it to shut him up more than anything." Her heart was in her mouth as she watched Dorothy's eyes begin to scan across the page, and she could feel her pulse quicken. Every time she laughed it felt like a small victory.

"Edith! That was marvellous!" Dorothy exclaimed when she had finished. "I didn't know that you could write so well. It was very funny!"

Edith looked at the floor and smiled, happiness bubbling up inside her. "I'm glad. I'd like to make people laugh."

"Are you going to publish it?" Dorothy asked eagerly. "You really should you know."

"Oh I don't know about that. Walter mentioned that he might know someone who would put it in their magazine, but I shouldn't think it's good enough for that."

"It really is, darling." Dorothy looked down and began to flick through the pages again. Slowly, though, her face changed. "Did this happen to you, Edith?"

Edith's smile also vanished. She didn't want Dorothy's pity. She had liked it better when she had been funny.

"Oh darling, it did." Dorothy shook her head. "This isn't _you_, though. You know that don't you?" She ran her finger down one of the pages until she found a particular line. "_Jane had never been a particularly pretty girl, and even her Grandmother had told her that she should not expect to marry a very handsome man. So, although Sir Howard was quite old and sentimental and not especially interesting, Jane knew that she was lucky to have caught someone at all._" Dorothy read aloud and looked at Edith very sadly. "You have ever such a low opinion of yourself."

"I know my weaknesses." Edith said quietly.

"You need to start knowing your strengths, too."

After Dorothy's praise, Edith retired to the hallway to telephone Walter. There was no harm in letting him know that she had done what he asked, even if it was still unlikely his editor friend would want to publish the story.

"Walter?"

"It's the delectable Edith Crawley!" Walter responded, and Edith rolled her eyes at the phone. "To what honour do I owe this conversation?"

"I just thought I'd let you know that your bullying paid off. I've written something."

"Really?" His exaggerated demeanour dropped and he sounded surprised and pleased. "Gosh, that is wonderful. When I can I read it?"

"I don't know. When do you want to read it?"

"Monday. I'll take you for breakfast at a little café I know. Shall I pick you up at nine?"

"If you want." Edith said coyly.

"Nine sharp." He paused. "Edith I am so glad that you've written something."

"So am I." She replied before disconnecting.


	10. Chapter 10

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.**_

"Dorothy!" Edith shouted as she almost bounced up the stairs with excitement. She had just returned from a meeting with her editor – _her editor!_ – and she couldn't wait to tell Dorothy all about it. It had been nearly six weeks since Edith had had her first story published in one of the most popular women's magazines of the day. It had received such a good response from readers that the editor had asked her to do another, and then another and now she had just been commissioned to write one a week for the next 12 issues. Edith could barely believe it. The editor, a nice man called Edward Utley, had given her some of the letters that they had been sent by women who had read her stories. She had looked through them with tears in her eyes; she could barely believe that people had read the stories, let alone enjoyed them enough to write letters telling her so. One woman had told her it had made her remember life before the war, and another had said that her characters seemed so realistic she almost felt like they were friends she knew. Mr Utley had told her that she had a 'natural turn of phrase' and an 'unsentimental, amusing' way of writing about the past, and by the time she had left the meeting she was dizzy with praise, the like of which she had never experienced. In the taxi on the way back home she had kept thinking _I can write. I can write. I can write. _This is what she could do. This was what she was good at. Finally, after 25 years, she had established her worth in this world, and it was a wonderful feeling.

When she pushed open the parlour door she had expected to see Dorothy listening to the gramophone or dancing around the room or pouring herself a drink, but instead she found her lying on the floor in half-gloom. She was curled into a ball, her hair loose and covering her face. On the carpet beside her was a newspaper, opened to a page about a new exhibition of the work of a dead artist. Edith could hear that she was crying. "Dorothy?" She dropped to the floor next to her friend and put her hand on her back. "Dorothy, what's happened?"

Dorothy raised her head and pushed back her hair, the tears making it stick to her face. Her round eyes were a startling shade of blue and glistening with moisture and her cheeks were red and patchy with crying. She tried to speak but could hardly catch her breath between sobs, so Edith just rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles until she managed to regulate her breathing. "In the paper." She whispered, pointing to the copy Edith had seen earlier.

"This paper?" She held it up. "Which page?"

"Th-that p-page." Dorothy hiccoughed. She paused for a moment to compose herself and then said, "The painter. The artist."

Edith quickly scanned the article. The man was called Edmund Carpenter. He was an artist who had moved to London to find appreciation for his work. He had died in 1918, during one of the last battles of the war, at the age of 34. She couldn't immediately find anything that would upset Dorothy so much. "Did you know him?"

Dorothy nodded and pressed her lips together tightly to keep from sobbing. Tears began to drip down her cheeks again, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position so that she and Edith were both sat on the floor with their back against the sofa. She wiped angrily at her face and then spoke again, her voice now calm and controlled. "Yes. I knew him. We were in love."

Edith inhaled in surprise. "In love?" She paused, her mind racing with questions. "But how did you meet?"

"I used to come up to London quite a lot before the war to stay with my cousin Caroline after she had married. He came to dinner with one of her husband's friends one night – her husband is one of those bores who likes to have artistic, bohemian friends to make himself feel more interesting – and that's where we met." Dorothy pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands and sighed a deep, shuddering sigh. "It was electric. An immediate attraction, and we both felt it. We sat next to each other at dinner and he kept nudging my foot under the table when somebody said something ridiculous. At the end of the evening he told me he would like to draw me, and gave me his address."

"Did you go?"

"Of course. I went the next day, and told Caroline I was going shopping. When I got there he was painting a picture of a ballet dancer – I remember that he had her leg just right. It was as if you could see the muscle, but it was still graceful. He was surprised that I'd come, and he kept apologising for everything being such a mess, but I loved it. His bed was in the corner of the room, and it wasn't made. I could see how he had slept from the dent in the sheet." Dorothy bit her lip and closed her eyes for a moment. "He hadn't shaved. Everything smelled like paint and turpentine, and he had a little tinny gramophone in the corner playing Debussy."

Edith felt as though she shouldn't be privy to these details. They almost felt too intimate and personal; she was intruding on a private love affair. Yet Dorothy continued, losing herself in the memory of Edmund and his paintings, trying to conjure up all the little details that saturated her memory.

"On that first day he drew my face in charcoal. It wasn't like anything I had seen before. I liked how he made me look more than any photograph." Her speech was disjointed, and she kept taking breaths between each sentence to keep from crying.

"Did you go back again?"

"I went nearly every day. He would draw or paint and we would listen to music. He smoked cigarettes that he'd roll himself. His room had a big skylight, and we used to sit up on the ledge and look out at London as the sun went down." Dorothy lifted one of her thin fingers to her mouth and began to agitate the skin around it. "You're always asking me how I know all the writers and artists that I know; he introduced me to them all. Edmund was a wonderful person, and he was very talented, so a lot of people liked him and wanted to meet him. He took me to the most spectacular parties, nothing like I had ever been to before." She stopped talking for a while and Edith watched her pretty, delicate face twist in pain. "We would have gotten married. He loved me and I loved him more than _anything_. We had planned it out – I was going to go home and explain it to my parents and then we were going to have a little wedding in London. I was going to get a job as a secretary and he had had a big commission, enough for us to a buy a bigger flat with a proper bedroom and kitchen. I was going to learn to cook." She leaned forwards and pressed her hand to her forehead, crumpling with pain. "It would have been so perfect. Then the damned war started, and he wasn't like all his friends who didn't join up and spent the next four years dodging the draft; he said he had a '_duty_'. A duty to fight for his country. I _begged_ him not to go - " she hit her knees with her hands in frustration " – but he said he had too. He told me it would be over by Christmas and that we would get married then. A few months wouldn't hurt."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Edith asked.

"He came home on leave in November 1917. I came up to London and told my parents I was staying with Caroline, but I stayed with him instead. He was home for four days, and we spent all of it together. We didn't leave his rooms once. When he left he told me that he felt like he wouldn't be fighting much longer, and I thought he meant that the war would be over soon, but – " her voice cracked with agony " – but I wonder if he somehow _knew_ what was going to happen to him."

"It was at Marne?." Edith asked, glancing down at the paper to check. There had been an officer at the hospital who had fought at Marne. It had been a nasty business, especially so near to the Armistice.

"Yes. David wrote to tell me. He was his best friend and because he didn't have any family Edmund had listed him as next of kin. I went a bit mad when I found out. I was in hysterics for days, and Mother thought I had lost it for good. I've never felt quite the same since. Even now, when I'm having all this brilliant fun I still feel like a part of me has gone for good." She looked down at the paper. "I wonder if I'll be in the exhibition. I doubt it though, I think I got all the one's of me. After he died, David cleared out his room, and he gave a lot of things to me. He had a whole sketchbook of drawings of me, and some canvasses that I had to keep hidden from Mother. They were nudes, you see."

"Nudes?" Edith gasped. She had never heard of anyone posing for a nude picture before.

"Don't be shocked, darling." Dorothy said with a small, sad smile.

"I'm not. Just surprised, I suppose. I can't believe you let him paint you."

"I let him do more than that." Dorothy whispered, looking at the floor.

Edith felt herself blush as she realised what Dorothy meant. "You mean you…?"

"Yes."

"But how did you avoid an… _inconvenience_?" Edith whispered this last word, as if the spectre of pregnancy was too frightening to be spoken aloud.

"He used to stop before he did… what would inconvenience me. It still counted, though." She added, almost defensively. "He was still my first. The Catholics say that means we're married. I like to think that. We loved each other. There was nothing immoral about it." Her face crumpled suddenly and she buried her face in Edith's shoulder, sobbing wild, angry sobs that hurt to listen to. "I miss him! I miss him so much!"

Edith wrapped her arms around her friend's thin body and held her as she dried. There was nothing else that she could do except this, and for Dorothy it was enough that Edith was there to support her and let her cry her bitter tears. This was a new situation for Edith. Mary had never wanted her comfort, and she had taken the role as Sybil's chief protector, so Edith had been left out of displays of sisterly affection. Here, with Dorothy, she was wanted and needed.

"I won't ever love anyone ever again. Not like I loved him." She physically shuddered with misery, and Edith could feel her shaking.

"I know." Edith whispered. She really did know how it felt to experience the death of the love of your life.

"And I don't even have a grave to go to. I have dreams about his body in some muddy ditch, rotting away without any flowers or marker or anything to prove that the he was a person who _lived_ and was loved." Dorothy whispered, rubbing her eyes.

"_If I should die, think only this of me  
>That there's some corner of a foreign field<br>That is for ever England. There shall be  
>In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;<br>A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,  
>Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,<br>A body of England's breathing English air,  
>Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home<em>." Edith recited, quietly.

Dorothy looked at her. "That's beautiful."

"It's Rupert Brooke. He wrote it during the war. You see, _there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever_Edmund."

The two women sat on the floor, huddled together, alternatively weeping and comforting for another hour. The fire flickered and outside the sky turned black, but they still stayed. Neither of them felt so alone in their private grief anymore, and that meant the world.


End file.
